


Being Draco Potter

by CorvetteClaire



Series: Misbegotten [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco Malfoy in Makeup, Established Relationship, Fluff, Harry's Thing with Walls, Hogwarts, Humor, Leather Trousers, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24153499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvetteClaire/pseuds/CorvetteClaire
Summary: Draco had not realized that Headmistress McGonagall was certifiably insane until she made him the assistant to the aging DADA professor. Now, if he wants her help in preparing for his N.E.W.T.s, he'll have to survive a classroom full of fifth-year Hufflepuffs who are all itching to rid the world of another Malfoy.Who knew 'Puffs could be so bloodyvicious?One-shot sequel toMisbegottenthat follows directly upon the Epilogue of that story. You can read it as a stand-alone, but the setup won't make much sense. Or some of the jokes (like the leather trousers).
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Misbegotten [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1743016
Comments: 11
Kudos: 260
Collections: Numerous OTPS Infinite Fandoms





	Being Draco Potter

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a bit of fluff I came up with in an attempt to break my writer's block. I hope you enjoy it!

Minerva McGonagall was not stupid. Draco was sure of that. Neither was she reckless, careless of the wellbeing of her students, or given to tormenting those whom she had at her mercy. That left only one rational explanation for her current behavior. She was insane. Off her head. Two Knuts shy of a Sickle. Flying without a broom.

The redoubtable Headmistress of Hogwarts had lost her sodding mind.

Draco smiled at her in a way he devoutly hoped would not trigger a burst of lunatic violence and cast a furtive look around him for an avenue of escape. There was none. He was seated in her office, high up in the circular tower, surrounded by windows, delicate instruments set on spindly-legged tables, and cat toys (lots of cat toys, which ought to have alerted him to a problem the moment he stepped through the door, but he’d been too nervous and excited to connect the dots), but only one door. He’d never reach it before she got her wand out. Or her claws.

He was trapped with a madwoman. A very powerful and respected madwoman, who could play with him like cat with a wounded vole and no one would think to question it. He was, after all, only a Potter by marriage and still considered lower than pond scum by most of the wizarding world.

With the utmost delicacy, he ventured, “I don’t think you’ve considered all the ramifications of what you’re suggesting, Headmistress.”

Then he added, silently, _Like my total fucking humiliation_ _or agonizing death._

“Nonsense,” she replied, in a tone that brooked no denial. “It’s the perfect solution. Professor Tidsworthy is well over one hundred by now, and while he manages quite well with the theory, practical application is far beyond him. Especially with the older, more aggressive students. He needs an assistant with the skill, agility and force of personality to handle a room full of reckless teenagers who have learned just enough to be dangerous.”

“ _Force of personality?_ ” Draco almost squeaked.

“Certainly.” She smiled at him, and if he weren’t so sure that she’d lost the plot, he would have been moved by the affection in her eyes. “Any man who can face down the Wizengamot can keep a NEWT-level class in line. And you have the real-world experience to command their respect.”

“Headmistress…”

“We need an explanation for your daily presence in the castle,” she went on inexorably. “Some parents—and some professors, to be perfectly honest—will not approve of my taking on a private student in this way. But if I can demonstrate your usefulness and convince the less enthusiastic of my colleagues that you’re not just wasting their precious time, no one will have grounds for complaint.”

Draco fiddled with the wand in his pocket and gnawed his lip—free of lipstick; he was at his most subdued and colorless today—while trying to grapple with her logic. It made sense that he needed a reason to haunt the castle. It also made sense to assist one or two of the professors, as payment for their tutoring, if nothing else. But take on a formal role as assistant to the Defense Master? Get up in front of a class and _tell those little wankers what to do?!_

It was completely mad! Possibly suicidal!

He was Draco Sodding Malfoy, no matter how many diamond-and-sapphire wedding rings he wore! He was a Marked Death Eater, spared prison only by the skin of his teeth and the eloquence of his savior-husband! There wasn’t one person in this castle—student or professor—who didn’t know that and didn’t hold it against him like a hot brand against his skin!

They would roast him alive over a bonfire, eviscerate him, and dance naked round the Whomping Willow, draping his guts like garland on its branches.

“Er…” was all he could manage to say.

“It’s time you put the mistakes of your youth behind you, Draco Potter,” she said sternly, “and show our world who you really are.”

He opened and closed his mouth a bit foolishly, but still came up with nothing.

“I will see that you’re ready for your NEWTs by the end of this school year and arrange for you to sit them with the Seventh Year students. To accomplish this, I will assess your current level in each of your chosen subjects, then arrange with the professors to fill in the gaps in your training. They may ask you to sit in on their classes, to attend private lessons, or to complete exercises on your own. Whatever is necessary. And I will tutor you myself, where appropriate.

“All I ask of you in return is that you work hard, do your best, and behave like the mature adult I know you are, no matter what provocation you may face from the less mature individuals around you. And when this is done, when you have passed your NEWTs with flying colors, I expect you to do something productive and fulfilling with your life. Something worthy of your intellect, your talent, and your training.”

She smiled at him again, and there was no mistaking the fondness in the expression.

“Do we have an agreement?”

He swallowed audibly and ventured, “Is assisting Professor Tidsworthy a non-negotiable part of that agreement?”

“It is.”

He swallowed again (gulped, really), hesitated, then nodded. McGonagall didn’t beam—she was not a beamer by nature—but her smile turned smug and her eyes glinted with satisfaction.

“Excellent.”

“Er… How will I have time for classes, tutoring sessions and studying, if I’m in Professor Tidsworthy’s classes all day?”

“You’ll only work with his OWL and NEWT students. Fifth year and up. That’s five classes a week, which leaves you plenty of time for your own studies.”

“And who will be my Defense teacher? You?”

“Draco, you don’t need my help or anyone else’s with Defense Against the Dark Arts. In fact, I suspect the only wizard alive who could teach you anything useful is your own husband.” Her smile widened and softened. “So I suggest, if you feel the need to revise for the NEWTs, you ask Harry to duel you a few times. That should put your mind at ease.”

Draco hummed noncommittally and blushed, not knowing quite how to take what was, for McGonagall, an effusive compliment. Then, after an awkward moment, he asked, “When do I start?”

“Bright and early tomorrow morning. Be in my office at eight o’clock to begin your assessment exams. You’ll start classes next week—Defense with the fifth year Hufflepuffs first thing Monday morning. An easy one to start with.”

Easy. Right. Merlin and Circe and _Salazar’s Stinking Cock_ , but this was going to be ugly!

*** *** ***

Professor Tidsworthy was a hunched, wizened, grizzled man with almost as many scars as Alastor Moody, though rather more of his original body parts. He seemed to be collapsing in on himself with age, getting smaller and thinner and greyer by the minute. His eyes were constantly red and rheumy, never seeming to focus on the students in front of him. Draco was quite sure that they couldn’t focus on his new assistant properly, since he referred to him as Young Potter withouta trace of irony in his voice or any indication that he knew who, exactly, he was talking about.

The fifth year Hufflepuffs did not have this problem. They could see him all too well and were not fooled by Tidsworthy’s form of address. Every eye in the room was fixed on him. And every last one of them was seething with hostility.

Hufflepuffs were usually so _nice._ So _forgiving._ What in the name of Merlin’s Blessed Balls was he going to do with the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws (not to mention the sodding Slytherins!) if he couldn’t even face a room full of Hufflepuffs?

This was going tits-up in a hurry.

“The Headmistress wants you to focus on practical application for the rest of the term,” Tidsworthy creaked cheerfully to his stony-faced audience, “and Young Potter, here, is just the man to help you.”

“Help us right into the hospital wing,” one surly-looking boy muttered.

Another boy snorted, and a girl behind him hissed, “He’s not getting near _me_ with a wand in his hand!”

Tidsworthy went on as if he hadn’t heard. Which he most likely hadn’t, Draco reflected.

“He’s a very skilled Defense practitioner who knows how curses and counter-curses actually work under fire…”

“Professor!” the surly boy called, waving a hand in the air to attract Tidsworthy’s attention.

“Yes, Huggins?”

The boy’s name was Horwich, Draco thought, but he didn’t seem to care what the professor called him. “Why can’t we practice among ourselves the way we always have?”

“You will,” Tidsworthy assured him, “but under Potter’s supervision. Look lively, now! Books away! Hopkins, get the desks against the wall.”

When the students didn’t move, he produced his wand and waved it, making all the textbooks lying open on their desks slam shut. Ten bodies jumped as if shocked, then began, reluctantly, to shuffle to their feet.

Draco watched their preparations in aloof silence, taking note of how they held themselves and their wands (you could tell a lot about a wizard by how he held his wand), and how they reacted to his hostile presence. This lot were, by and large, careless and clumsy. They seemed strangely willing to turn their backs on a perceived threat. Only Horwich (or Huggins or Hopkins or whatever his name was) and a young witch with ginger plaits wound round her head like a coronet remembered to keep their eyes on Draco and their backs to a wall.

As he watched, a sudden idea came to him. It was risky, but then, this whole situation was risky. So, what did he have to lose?

Stepping forward, Draco whipped out his wand and fired a mild Stinging hex at the nearest oblivious back. The student yelped and spun around, wand coming up belatedly to protect himself, even as Draco fired another hex at another careless student. A chorus of shouts and protests met his attack, while he continued to strike, always aiming for a student who had his or her back turned.

It was Horwich who finally reacted, though it took him a couple of tries to get it right. First, he fired a Stinging hex of his own that Draco easily parried. Then he shouted at his classmates to get their heads out of their arses. Then, finally, he shouted, “ _Protego!_ ”, flinging up a shield wall between Draco and the students.

Draco immediately lowered his wand and gave him a curt nod. “Very good.”

But Horwich was not in the mood to take the compliment. He turned on Tidsworthy, frothing with rage. “He _attacked us_ , Professor! Didn’t you see?! He _pulled his wand on us!_ ”

“Certainly, he did,” Tidsworthy replied cheerfully. “And you learned something, didn’t you? Never turn your back on an adversary.”

A general howl met this blithe remark, as every student in the room began complaining at once. Draco just stood there, arms crossed, wand still in his hand, and waited for the Hufflepuffs’ natural respect for authority to cool their tempers. He suspected that his stiff silence was only throwing fuel on the fire, but then, anything he did right now would likely have the same effect.

He was a Malfoy. A Marked Death Eater. Whether silent or snarking, he was the enemy.

Finally, the desks were pushed back, the students’ books and bags stowed under them, and the students themselves clumped sullenly in the center of the room. Still, less than half of them had their wands in their hands. Draco sighed inwardly at this evidence of gross stupidity but kept his face blank.

In a deliberate gesture of disdain, he turned his back on them and strode over to where Tidsworthy stood. A Stinging hex zipped through the air toward him. He flung up a shield at the last moment, sending the hex ricocheting off his spell to hit the ceiling, where it gouged a deep hole and sent plaster raining down. Turning back to the knot of students glaring at him in such helpless fury, Draco waited for the dusting of plaster to sift down onto their heads and shoulders. It looked like snow on their black robes.

Not one of them put up a shield to stop it.

Turning to Tidsworthy, he said politely, “I think we’ll start with Shield charms.”

“Excellent, excellent,” the old man creaked.

“We already know how to shield!” Horwich protested.

Draco fixed him with a cool stare. “Good. Prove it.” Then, to the entire room, “Form pairs. You’ll trade off casting a simple Stinging hex and blocking it. I’ll tell you when to switch.”

Dead silence met his words. No one moved, until Tidsworthy called, “Go on, then! Don’t make Mr. Potter repeat his instructions!”

This sparked yet another chorus of discontent, but muted this time. Muttered. Hissed through clenched teeth as they broke into pairs and spread out to fill the room.

Draco gave them a few minutes to get going, then eased away from Tidsworthy and into the room. He threaded his way between the black-clad bodies (his own blending in with the crowd except for his bright, unmistakable hair) pausing to watch each pair, assessing their stance, grip, wand movements and concentration. The first time he spoke it was to the witch with the ginger coronet. She started at the sound of his voice, shot him a resentful look from beneath her lashes, but obediently adjusted her grip on her wand. He waited only to see that her next attempt at a _Protego_ was more successful, then went on his way, not expecting or receiving thanks for his help.

It was on his second circuit of the room that the first surreptitious spell came at him. It was a Jellylegs jinx and not very strong, but with all the magic flying about, he almost didn’t sense it and get his shield up in time. The second one was a Bat-bogey hex and had quite a bit of power behind it, but he was prepared and easily blocked it. After that, they came so thick and fast that he enclosed himself in a protective bubble so he didn’t have to worry about blocking each one individually.

Unfortunately, he had to lower his shield to get close enough to a student to speak, and it was while he was giving instructions to a young wizard called Fairchild that the Cutting hex got him. It came from in front and to the right, at an oblique angle, slicing across his cheek before he could step away from Fairchild and into the clear. It caught the boy, too. He cried out in pain, clapped a hand to his head, then shot a tearful, appalled look at Draco before scuttling away, blood seeping from between his fingers and soaking into his hair.

“Here, now!” Tidsworthy called. “Stinging hexes only! No need to draw blood!”

Draco snapped his shield up and stalked to the front of the classroom, furious and helpless. He didn’t know who had cast the hex and didn’t dare call attention to it, with Tidsworthy either not realizing or not acknowledging that it had been fired at his assistant. If he made an issue out of it, he looked mean. If he fired back, he looked like a bully. If he ignored it, he looked weak.

Once again, no move was right. All he could do was stand there and fume.

He spent the rest of the class planted a few feet from Tidsworthy, snarling instructions at students who pointedly ignored him and feeling the blood trickle down his cheek. It was infuriating. Humiliating. A bloody waste of time.

He was still bleeding when he arrived in McGonagall’s office for his afternoon tutoring session. He was also bruised and rumpled, his severe black robes torn, thanks to one Ravenclaw’s ingenuity. Unable to break through Draco’s shields and hex him, the insufferable brat had conjured a pool of slimy water directly in front of his feet—and right at the top of a flight of stairs. The resulting tumble had damaged his dignity more than his body, but again, there was fuck-all he could do about it.

McGonagall took one look at him—at his torn robes, his bloodied cheek, his mussed hair, his ferocious scowl—and clucked in disapproval.

“It seems the news of your return has spread through the castle.”

“It has,” Draco said curtly.

He flung his book bag down beside one of her tartan armchairs and himself into it. He didn’t even bother to straighten his robes or correct his posture, just slumped against the cushions, hands dangling over the arms, legs sprawled boorishly. A lock of hair, pulled out of its neat queue, fell against his bloody cheek and stuck there. He reached up to scratch it, then snatched his hand away and glared at his reddened fingers.

“Filthy little hellions. They’re lucky I didn’t hex them into next week.”

“As I recall, you promised to behave like a mature adult.”

“That was before they announced Open Season on Malfoys!”

“Well.” Her eyes twinkled ruefully. “You’re a Potter, or so you claim.”

“Little they care.”

Her gaze raked his slender person, taking in his black robes, restrained hairstyle and pale, angry face. He read amusement in her look and understanding. But also a species of rebuke that brought an angry flush to his cheeks, a sparkle to his eyes.

“Might I suggest that you behave like a Potter, if you want them to accept you as one?”

His scowl deepened. “I can’t be Harry, and he’s the only Potter they’re interested in.”

McGonagall let it lie and turned her attention to his lessons.

Thanks to Madam Pomfrey, he wasn’t bleeding when he arrived home at the end of his long, exhausting and frustrating day, but he was still scowling. Harry and Bob met him as he came out of the floo, grinning and laughing at some shared joke, then both wrapped him in their loving arms. Draco suffered their embraces, but even his son’s angelic little face could not reconcile him to his humiliating failure.

He gave first Bob, then Harry perfunctory kisses and fled to the bath, where he immersed himself in hot water, buried himself under scented bubbles, and lost himself in contemplation of all the ways in which McGonagall and Tidsworthy and the insufferable Horwich deserved to die. He had switched from plotting murder to composing a dignified speech for McGonagall, in which he swore that he would rather pluck out his own eyes and eat them on a bed of radicchio than spend another day as Tidsworthy’s assistant, when Harry knocked on the door.

“Draco? Are you all right in there?”

“Of course I am, Potter. I don’t need a babysitter.”

“You’ve been in there for nearly two hours.”

Draco glanced around, allowing himself to notice his surroundings for the first time. The bubbles were gone. The water was cold and faintly oily. The candles were guttering. His fingertips were wrinkled and sad looking.

He sighed and heaved himself to his feet.

“Fine. I’m done.”

Potter met him at the bathroom door. He looked worried, but it changed to angry when he saw Draco’s naked torso and the bruises on it. The hot water had drawn the blood back up under his skin and turned them dark again.

“What happened? How did you get those bruises?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Draco crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out his dressing gown.

“It does,” Harry insisted angrily, “if someone hurt you! And… is that a cut on your face?”

“Just a hex that got out of hand. The scar will fade in a day or two.”

“Draco.”

Draco turned to face him, lifting his chin and cinching the belt of his gown tight with a bit more force than was strictly necessary. “What.”

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m quitting. That’s what’s going on.”

“You’re… what?”

“Quitting.” His chin came down as he wilted under Harry’s disbelieving gaze. “I knew it would never work— _me_ as a teaching assistant! It’s mental! And I was mental to agree to do it in the first place.”

“No.” Harry stepped up close to him and took his hand. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

He turned away, his hand still caught in Harry’s, and climbed onto the bed. The other man came with him, stretching out beside him when he flopped back on the pillow, and propping himself up on an elbow so he could look at Draco.

“I’m a Malfoy, Harry. A Death Eater. They all know it, and there’s no way in bleeding hell that they’re going to let me forget it! I’m lucky it was just the Hufflepuffs today. All they did was throw a few hexes. You can be sure the Ravenclaws and Gryffindors won’t be so kind. And the Slytherins won’t let me out alive.”

Harry digested this in silence, his expression thoughtful. Then he ventured, “Can you tell McGonagall?”

“I tried. All she said was that I should act more like a Potter.” He snorted in disgust and closed his eyes to block out the view of Harry’s concerned face. “Big help that was.”

“Well, that is kind of what I said this morning.”

Draco thought back to that morning—to Harry’s surprised face when he came into the kitchen in his old Hogwarts robes, hair tied back in a simple black ribbon, face clean of makeup and hands free of jewelry—and snorted again. “She wasn’t talking about my robes.”

“Wasn’t she? Only… this severe, restrained, conservative thing isn’t really you, is it? You look more like Snape than my Draco.”

“That’s a low blow,” Draco murmured, a reluctant smile tilting his lips. “And I don’t think changing my clothes is going to fix anything.”

“And quitting is?” Draco opened his eyes and turned a resentful glare on his husband. “You can’t just give up, Draco.”

“Yes, I bloody well can!”

“Not if you want to pass your NEWTs. Not if you want McGonagall’s help in getting into a Magical Law program.” He smiled sadly. “Not if you want a career outside these walls.”

Draco whined in frustration and clenched his eyes shut again, pressing the thumb and forefinger of his free hand to their lids.

“Don’t get me wrong, love. I don’t care if you ever get a job. I’d be happy to spend every day here with you—taking care of Felix, shagging all over the house, trying out Hermione’s Ancient Egyptian Fertility magic—but _you_ wouldn’t be happy.”

“I can’t do it, Harry.”

“Maybe not, but you haven’t really tried, have you? Give it more time. Stop channeling Snape and try a different approach.”

When Draco refused to answer, just sulked behind his raised hand, Harry urged, “Please, Draco, _try._ ”

*** *** ***

He tried.

Every day for a week he donned his Hogwarts robes (minus the damning Slytherin badge on the breast), tied back his hair and marched into the Defense classroom like a martyr climbing onto his own pyre. Every night he came home shaken and depressed and defeated. He managed to escape with only minor wounds, even the vengeful Slytherins unable to break through his shields more than once, but with nothing accomplished.

He didn’t teach anything useful. He didn’t impress the students with his skill or experience. He didn’t win any allies on the staff. He didn’t learn anything when he sat in on the Arithmancy class because his presence so completely disrupted the lesson that Professor Vector cancelled it and told Draco not to come back.

It was a total fucking disaster of a week, coming to a head on Friday with the NEWT-level Defense class overtly attacking him in front Tidsworthy and the new Transfiguration Master cutting him dead in the hallway when he tried to ask her about an assignment. He left the castle in a rage and arrived home in tears. Once again, he fled to the bathroom, this time not even stopping to greet Harry or Bob.

Harry found him there, neck-deep in hot water, tears still running down his face and dripping into the bath. He stripped off and climbed into the tub. Then, very gently, he gathered Draco up in his arms and held him while he cried.

Sometime later, his tears dried and his body limp with exhaustion, Draco mumbled into Harry’s shoulder, “Where’s Bob?”

“In his crib.”

“You should go to him. He shouldn’t be alone.”

“He’s fine. You’re the one who needs me, right now.”

“I don’t.”

“Draco. Love. What happened?”

The gentle tone squeezed him like a fist, making his throat close up tight and his lungs sob when he tried to draw in a breath. His eyes burned with fresh tears. He turned his face into Harry’s shoulder to hide them.

“Tell me,” Harry urged softly. “Let me help.”

“You can’t.”

“I can listen.”

Draco took another shaking breath, let it out on a moan, and whispered, “I tried, Harry. I did. But they hate me and nothing’s going to change that.”

“Shh,” Harry soothed, petting his damp hair. “They don’t hate you. They can’t because they don’t _know_ you.”

“They don’t need to. I’m a Malfoy, and that’s enough for them.”

“But you’re not a Malfoy. You’re _not._ You’re a _Potter_.”

“You think they care?” He straightened up and fixed red, puffy eyes on his husband’s face. “I can tell them I’m a Potter ’til I’m blue in the face! They aren’t going to listen! Fuck, Harry, _you_ could tell them and they wouldn’t care! They’d probably hex you! The Fucking Savior of the entire Fucking Universe! They’d blast your bollocks off just for saying it!”

“So, don’t tell them. Show them.”

Draco gaped at him, bereft of words, while Harry lifted his left hand and dropped a kiss on the glittering circle of gems around his fourth finger.

“ _Be_ Draco Potter. The same Draco Potter who stood up in front of the Wizengamot and told them he wanted nothing to do with the Malfoys, ever again. The same Draco Potter who won McGonagall’s support, affection, _respect._ ” He dropped another kiss on the ring, his eyes locked to Draco’s and burning with adoration. “The same Draco Potter who’s going to carry my child and prove that he’s the most powerful wizard in the world.”

“I never said I was going to carry your child,” Draco said thickly.

“Fine. Forget that one. But you get the point?”

“I…” Draco stared down at his jeweled ring and the strong hand clasping his. “I don’t know.”

“I do. Trust me, Draco. You can do fucking _anything_ , if you just let yourself.”

*** *** ***

Draco timed his entrance to a nicety, waiting until all the students were present and Tidsworthy standing in front of them. Until his absence was obvious and the students were beginning to whisper among themselves and speculate as to who had succeeded in driving away the hated Malfoy interloper. Then, when the stage was perfectly set, he burst through the door without breaking stride and strode into the room in a swirl of embroidered robes and a flash of leather-clad legs.

He had dressed as meticulously as he’d orchestrated his arrival. Leather trousers. Mod boots. Lace frothing at his throat and wrists. Peacock-blue robes embroidered in gold and set with gems in shades of purple, green and blue. The most elaborate and preposterous top-knot he’d ever fashioned, woven with purple streaks and topped with the dragon comb Granger had given him. His most shocking and (if you were Harry and susceptible to these things) alluring makeup, complete with a dusting of gold powder on his eyelids and cheekbones. But far and away the most arresting thing about him was not his own appearance. It was the child perched on his hip.

Every body in the room froze at the sight of him. Every mouth dropped open. Every pair of eyes bugged ’til they threatened to pop out.

Draco strode to the front of the room without vouchsafing them so much as a glance, while Bob gazed at them in wide-eyed wonder, cooing and babbling around the fingers shoved in his mouth.

“Oh, what an adorable baby!” one of the girls cried, starting a susurration of whispers.

“Isn’t he, though?” Draco said coolly, as he turned to face them all. “I warn you, he’s part Veela and extremely dangerous.”

In answer to this, Bob stretched out his drool-slicked hand toward the nearest student and laughed. This one was a boy, but he looked every bit as smitten as the girl behind him.

“His name is Bob,” Draco went on, seemingly unaware of the effect his son was having on the class, “and he is the focus of today’s lesson. As you all know—or you certainly _should_ know—Veela have a singular kind of magic called Allure. How many of you have felt it before today?”

Dazed faces lifted to him.

“I’ll take that as ‘none’.”

With a flick of his wand, Draco enclosed Bob in a bubble of power and sent him floating toward the ceiling. He squealed with delight, pushing against the bubble with his hands and laughing when it wobbled.

“Won’t he fall?” Fairchild asked.

“Of course not. Do you think I’d put my own child at risk?”

“Who knows what a Malfoy would do?” Horwich grumbled.

Draco fixed him with a smirk. “Thrown off the Allure already, I see. All right then, you filthy urchins, let’s get a few things straight. First, my name is _Potter._ Draco _Potter._ I suggest you make an effort to remember it, or I’ll be forced to reinforce the lesson in my own way, and trust me when I say, you won’t enjoy it.”

He swept them all with a regal look, then went on, “Second, I’m here at the express invitation of Headmistress McGonagall. That means, I have her full support and confidence. And _that_ means, no running to Mummy and Daddy to tell them that the mean, nasty Death Eater is frightening you in class because your dear mum and dad can’t do shite about it. I’m here to _teach_ you, not to provide a target for you, and if that means frightening you a little, now and then, so be it. Third.”

He broke off to flick open the buttons at his left cuff and push up his sleeve.

“Yes, I was a Death Eater and I have the Mark to prove it.”

He held out his arm, while the students craned their necks to see the hideous, black tattoo sprawling up it. A ripple of horror went through them.

“Pretty, isn’t it? Let this be your first, last, most important lesson in Defense Against the Dark Arts! Some choices are forever. Some mistakes cannot be erased. And some of the things your parents or your friends or your lovers tell you are simply _wrong_. So wrong that believing them can destroy your life.”

He gave them another minute to stare and to absorb, then he let his sleeve fall to cover the Mark again. As he fastened his lace-trimmed cuff, he went on in a slightly kinder voice.

“I was a Death Eater, but I was one of the lucky ones. I lived long enough to learn the error of my ways. Now I am just another wizard, like you, but with a unique insight into the Dark Arts and the horrors they can inflict on people who are not adequately prepared to meet them. I am not here to hurt you, corrupt you, betray you, or pollute your feeble little minds. I’m here to teach you how to defend yourselves when evil wizards like me try to sneak up on you in the dark. Or when adorable babies like that one,” he gestured to where Bob floated happily in his magical bubble, “try to turn your brains to mush with their Allure. And trust me when I say, he’s much scarier than I am.”

A witch in the front row raised her hand cautiously. “Er, Mr. Potter?”

Draco resisted the urge to smirk or arch a brow. “Yes?”

“Why do you say he’s dangerous? What’s dangerous about a baby being, well, cute?”

Draco laughed, and the level of tension in the room abruptly dropped at the sound. “He’s dangerous because he won’t stay a baby!”

Turning in a swirl of bright robes, he propped himself against Tidsworthy’s desk and struck a casual pose, ankles crossed, hands braced on the desktop. Then he cocked an eyebrow at the confused witch.

“Have you heard of the Imperius Curse?”

She nodded eagerly. “We learned about the Unforgivables at the beginning of the year.”

“Have you ever seen anyone under the influence of that curse?”

“No.” Her eyes widened hugely. “It’s… well, it’s _unforgivable_ , isn’t it?”

“It certainly is, but it was used extensively during the war. I have been under the Imperius Curse myself, and I can tell you what it feels like.”

“Someone cast an Unforgivable Curse at _you?_ ” a boy near the back gasped.

Both of Draco’s brows rose up nearly to his hairline. “I’ve been hit with the Imperius and Cruciatus Curses many times. The only one I haven’t experienced firsthand—though I’ve seen it used—is the Killing Curse.”

“Did you see Harry Potter get hit with the second Killing Curse?” Horwich asked.

The girl beside him reached over to pinch him and hissed, “Shut it, you tit! That’s his _husband!_ ”

Draco shook his head and pitched his voice to carry over the resulting babble. “No, I did not, and we’re getting off the subject! Someday, if you like, I’ll tell you a bit about the war, if only to reinforce what I say about the Dark Arts and bad choices. For now, I want you to imagine what it’s like to be under the Imperius Curse. To have no control over what you do or say and no awareness of the consequences of either. You’re in a kind of blissful fog, with a voice telling you what to do. You can’t argue. You don’t _want_ to argue. And you never want it to end.”

“Can’t you fight it?” Horwich asked.

“Yes, you can, and that’s what we’re coming to. The Imperius Curse takes away your ability to think and act on your own volition. You’re totally under the control of the caster. And a Veela’s Allure is something like that. It doesn’t totally cloud your mind, the way the Imperius does, but it takes away your ability to think for yourself, at least where the Veela and his or her wishes are concerned. So, if a Veela wants something from you, you give it without complaint. No matter what it is.”

“Like sex?” another boy cut in.

Draco nodded. “That’s most commonly what an adult Veela wants. But a child like Bob, here, might want food or attention or a toy that you tried to take away. When that’s all he’s asking for, it’s not particularly dangerous. And when he’s this young, it’s not difficult to resist his Allure, as long as you’re on your guard. But with every year that goes by, his magic gets stronger, his Allure gets stronger, and his demands get more insistent, until he hits puberty and you’re properly in for it.”

That earned him a general laugh.

He turned and waved his wand. Bob’s bubble floated gently down to land in the lap of a girl in the second row. It popped, and the girl found herself holding an armful of warm, sweet-smelling, cooing, squirming adorableness. Draco watched Bob for a moment, watched the girl holding him visibly melt, then lifted his eyes to the students.

“How many of you can feel it?”

Every hand in the room went up.

He waved his wand, and the bubble reformed.

“Can you still feel it?”

“Yes, but… it’s changing,” the girl who held Bob said.

“That’s right. It’s fading. He’s just a little bloke, so it will fade quickly.”

“How did you stop it?”

“I put him in a Containment spell. You could do the same to a fully-grown Veela, but they would most likely be able to break it, so that’s not a workable longterm solution to countering a Veela’s Allure. The only way to do it—and most people can’t, so don’t be disheartened—is to resist it like you would the Imperius Curse. And that’s what we’re going to practice today. If you can start with a child, like Bob, who’s only one-quarter Veela, then you stand a chance of doing it when you meet the real thing.”

“Can you resist them?” Horwich taunted.

Draco gave a snort of laughter and said, wryly, “How do you think I ended up with Bob?”

“You mean…?” the girl holding Bob squeaked, her cheeks flaming red.

“I mean, I fell prey to a French Veela twat with the morals of a harpy.” He grinned, no trace of embarrassment in his manner, and nodded at the baby in her lap. “But I’ve been building a resistance to my own son, so I’ll be ready for her next time.”

Then he bounded to his feet and clapped his hands together. “All right, who wants to go first? Horwich?”

The boy glared at him from beneath lowered brows and growled, “I don’t like babies.”

“Excellent. Then you should have no trouble resisting this one. Go on, show us all how it’s done!” When Horwich just gulped, his cheeks reddening, Draco took pity on him. “A Veela’s most obvious weapon is his voice, so start with a Muting charm…”

*** *** ***

Harry tumbled out of the fireplace to be met by an incandescent Draco. He was positively glowing in the dark room, his hair and eyes and triumphant smile brighter even than the gems on his robes, drawing Harry toward him like a moth to a flame. So enraptured was he by the vision before him, Harry didn’t even bother to glance at his surroundings. He simply snatched Draco into his arms and kissed him. Hard.

Draco returned the kiss willingly, then pulled back and laughed up at his taller husband.

Harry was suddenly dizzy with want. “You summoned me, oh Glorious One?”

“I did. And you took your sweet time getting here.”

“I had work to do. In fact, I was in Robards’ office when your Patronus arrived.”

“My, my, how awkward.” He sounded far too pleased about it. “Well, you’re here now, so I suppose I can forgive you.”

“Yes, but why am I here? And where’s Felix?”

“ _Bob_ is with Madam Pomfrey, being spoiled rotten, as usual. _You_ are here because I thought you might like to celebrate with me.”

“Celebrate what?”

“My absolute and utter brilliance, of course!”

“Of course. Silly of me to ask.”

Harry stooped to claim his mouth again, humming with pleasure when he felt the purple lipstick Draco wore begin to melt and smear. The sensation went straight to Harry’s groin, bringing his cock up hard and fast. He pressed against the body in his arms and felt an answering hardness there.

“Fuck! Draco!” he gasped, pulling away to catch his breath and rein himself in.

“That’s the idea,” Draco mumbled, reaching for his mouth again.

“In the Hogwarts staff room? Couldn’t you wait ’til we get home?”

“No and no. The students are all at dinner, so we can choose any spot we like. And I thought you wanted to fuck me up against every wall in the castle?”

“Oh, _Merlin!_ ” Harry groaned.

“Come on.”

Draco grabbed his hand and headed for the door. Harry fell into step beside him and, together, they fled up the main staircase to the dim, empty, echoing hallways above. Somewhere on the third floor, beyond the Charms classroom, they found a convenient alcove with no armor or statues, and no ghosts or poltergeists floating about to kill the mood. Draco collapsed back against the stone wall, breathing hard, cheeks flushed, eyes fixed on Harry as if he were a particularly scrumptious treat waiting to be snatched.

“This is it.” He pulled on Harry’s hand again, drawing him close. “The perfect place for a celebration.”

“Daft git,” Harry murmured lovingly.

He bent to kiss Draco again and was rewarded with a low moan. The body pressed so tightly to his began to move, hips rocking, hands knotting in his robes, legs lifting and hooking round his thighs to guide him still closer. Harry obligingly reached inside the other man’s robes to clasp his bum and support his weight.

He was wearing leather trousers.

Oh, Merlin _fuck!_ He was wearing _leather trousers!_

“I fucking love these trousers,” Harry mumbled against Draco’s hot, smeary, filthy, purple lips.

“If you don’t get them off me in the next ten seconds, I’ll have to hurt you,” was the panting reply.

It took every ounce of Harry’s self control to break the kiss, but he managed it, in spite of Draco’s warning growl. “You really want to shag in a castle full of children?”

“I don’t see any children.” Draco bit at Harry’s lip, then swiped his tongue across it, making him groan. “All I see is my idiot husband, who is about to miss this chance to fuck me up against a wall and maybe, just maybe, plant a baby in me while he’s at it!”

“Right. Like you believe that.”

“Do you care what I believe? Come on, Potter, don’t quit on me now! Not when we’ve got a whole castle full of walls, just waiting to be used!”

With another groan, this one of surrender, Harry fastened his lips to Draco’s again and plunged his tongue into his mouth. Draco met him thrust for thrust, bite for bite, his lips hot with want and his hands fierce with demand when they knotted in Harry’s robes. They went in an instant from laughing to growling. From caressing to bruising. From playful to desperate. Draco hissed in anger when Harry tore his lips away to focus on undressing him, then fastened his long fingers in his hair, tugging ’til Harry’s scalp burned and his cock leapt.

His hands clumsy in his urgency, Harry fumbled with buttons and zips, pausing every now and then to suck at the white skin he bared or lunge up for another taste of those purple-red lips. By the time he got Draco’s boots, trousers and pants off, he was too far gone to worry about the rest of his clothing. He simply tore open robes and shirt, grabbed the smaller man by the thighs and plowed into him, sure that he would lose his mind if he didn’t bury himself his lover’s body that very fucking instant _._

Draco welcomed him with a panting cry full of as much pain as pleasure. He propped his shoulders against the stone wall behind him, braced his hands on either side of the alcove, and curved his hips up to take in still more of Harry. Then, eyes fluttering closed and mouth open on a gasp, he abandoned himself to the relentless pounding of Harry’s hips.

Harry came blindingly hard, stiffening as pleasure spiked in his groin and burst out of him in a flood of heat, then crumpling over to lie against Draco’s trembling, panting, sweat-streaked body. Even as he breathed through his own orgasm, still gripped by its tremors, Harry felt the vibrating tension in the other man’s body, the plea in his soft whine at Harry’s touch, the heat and wetness of the cock trapped between them. Fastening his lips to the soft skin of Draco’s throat, Harry took his cock in hand and brought him to a swift, shuddering climax.

They stood together, Draco still wrapped around Harry’s body, just breathing and shaking, until their pulses had returned to normal and some strength had returned to their limbs. Then Harry eased Draco’s feet back to the floor and crossed to the nearest window, propping his bum on the high stone sill. Draco came with him, settling onto his thighs and against his chest. Harry wrapped him close in his arms. Draco wiped a thumb across his lips to remove the smeared lipstick, then kissed him softly.

“So,” he finally murmured, his eyes gleaming at Harry from beneath the sweep of his lashes, “are you going to congratulate me?”

“On what, exactly?”

“My stunning success as a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, of course!”

“They liked the makeup and Mod boots, then?”

“Well, mostly they liked Bob, but it was my indisputably brilliant idea to bring him. And funnily enough, I think the makeup helped.”

“I _told_ you so,” Harry murmured against his warm lips.

“Hmmph!” Draco snorted, but he welcomed the offered kiss and lingered over it until Harry felt his cock stir again. Then, perversely, he pulled away. “I knew you’d try to take the credit.”

“I’m just _saying_ ,” Harry protested, “I told you that you could do anything, if you really tried. _You_ being Draco Potter, my gorgeous git of a husband, not the reincarnation of Severus Snape.”

“I never looked like Snape,” Draco sniffed. “I never let my hair get that greasy.”

“Twat,” Harry said adoringly.

“It is entirely inappropriate to call the next great legal mind of Magical Britain a _twat._ ”

“I’m not calling the next great legal mind of Magical Britain a twat, I’m calling _you_ a twat. Because that’s what you are—an outrageous, insane, magnificent, infuriating twat. _My_ twat. My Draco. My love.” Harry kissed him hungrily, leaving them both flushed and breathless, then murmured against his lips, “My everything.”

Draco hummed happily, then sniped, in a tone more gentle than cutting, “How fortunate that I’m all you need. You won’t regret all those children we aren’t going to have.”

“Oh, I’ll still get you up the duff, no fear. If the castle’s magic didn’t do the job today, we’ll just have to try Hermione’s Ancient Egyptian Fertility magic.”

“No, I’m sorry Potter, but I’m going to be much too busy for elaborate magical rituals and swollen ankles. I have young minds to mould, mountains of injustice to scale, moral crusades to mount…”

“You can do all that with swollen ankles. Or,” Harry ventured, feeling suddenly quite flushed and uncertain, “I could be the one to, er, put up with the swollen ankles, while you fight your crusades…”

Draco leaned back in his arms to eye him narrowly. For a long, quiet minute, he said nothing, while a bundle of nerves writhed sickeningly in Harry’s stomach. Then he tossed his head and snorted in magnificent disdain.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Potter.”

A fear that Harry would not even admit to feeling abruptly vanished. Stupidly noble Gryffindor that he was, he would not take back the offer once it was made, but he couldn’t help being relieved that Draco hadn’t taken him up on it. He wanted more children, no question, but he wanted them to come out of his fabulous, jeweled peacock of a husband, not out of himself.

“Just because I’m not ready to pop out a little green-eyed Potter-spawn doesn’t mean I’m willing to give up my prerogatives entirely.”

“Perish the thought,” Harry murmured, lips twitching into a smile. “Which prerogatives are these, now?”

“Getting fucked into the wall on a regular basis.”

Harry tightened his hold on Draco’s steel-strong body and pressed a kiss to the base of his throat. “How regularly?”

“Daily. Hourly, if I could tempt you away from the Ministry more often.”

“Well.” Another kiss to Draco’s throat, then a nibble at his earlobe. “I’m not at the Ministry now.”

“You’re not fucking me either, which is a shameful waste of an opportunity, if you ask me.”

Harry sprang to his feet, still holding Draco tight against his chest, and held out a hand to summon his scattered clothing. “Never let it be said that I wasted an opportunity!”

“Pick a wall, Potter,” Draco hummed against his lips. “And make it a good one. Who knows? Maybe this time it’ll take…”

**_Finis_ **

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested in more from the _Misbegotten_ universe, please subscribe to the Series. I am working on a longer fic that follows Harry and Draco's attempts to expand their family and I may publish a few fun one-shots. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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